Season Five Tag scenes
by ElliQuinn
Summary: This is a collection of tags to various Season Five episodes, some of which were up as individual stories before I decided to collect them all here. With only thirteen eps to work with, the writers have been forced to leave some things out, so here are my attempts to fill in the gaps. I have rated it T for occasional swearing.
1. Chapter 1

**Here are three tag scenes to BSOD. Apologies if you have already read this one, since it started as a standalone but now forms part of a series.  
**

 **Exfil**

 _At least we're wearing dark clothes_ , was Harold's main thought as they left the building. Which was an absurd thing to be thinking at a time like this. As the bullets pinged around them he clutched the precious briefcase and concentrated on following Ms Groves and Mr Reese. John seemed quite relaxed, walking and shooting at the same time, while Root had the light of battle in her eyes. After what seemed like an interminable time they reached some cover, dodging around a corner and then disappearing into an alley like rats into the wainscoting. Thankfully his colleagues' marksmanship had been good enough to deter Samaritan's operatives from following too closely, although Harold knew that couldn't possibly last more than another couple of minutes. He glanced down at the briefcase, its little blue light glowing reassuringly. _You're not dead. Not quite. Not yet._

"We're going to have to split up," said Root. She took a cautious look back around the corner of the alley. There was blood dripping from her arm.

"Are you hurt, Ms Groves?" he asked.

"It's okay, Harry. A bullet just nicked me a moment ago. Hardly more than a graze," she replied.

"Root's right," put in Mr Reese. "If we split up now we can keep 'em guessing a while longer. We can rendezvous back at the subway."

Harold looked down again at the case in his hand. The decision was obvious, really. But handing his child over, even to his best friend… seemed like a dereliction of duty. _I can't protect you_ , he thought to the Machine. _But he can. And you know you can trust him._ He held out the briefcase to John. "Here, Mr Reese. You're the best person to take care of this right now."

After the tiniest of hesitations John reached out for the case. His eyes met Harold's. "I'll do my very best, Harold," he said softly. "I'll keep it safe, I promise." One corner of his mouth twitched as he tried to give a reassuring smile, but his eyes were dark and troubled as he took the briefcase.

"I know you will," said Harold just as softly.

Root was watching impatiently. "Go on," she said to John. "Just go. I'll lead them off." Without waiting for a reply she made for the alley entrance and vanished into the darkness back in the direction from which they'd come. Mr Reese began walking down to the far end of the alley, where it gave out into a quiet street. Harold followed. As they reached the end of the alley John gave him one brief nod and a smile – a genuine one this time. "See you on the other side, Harold," he said. Then he turned and trotted rapidly off into the darkness. Harold watched them go for a couple of seconds. Then he turned his collar up and began limping as quickly as he could in the opposite direction.

 **Death of an Obstructionist**

Joe Soriano sat down at his desk in a particularly bad mood. Dealing with Feds was practically guaranteed to piss off any self-respecting cop, although Soriano prided himself on his ability to maintain a good working relationship with the arrogant bastards. But this was aggravation at a whole new level.

For one thing, there was that douche-bag Fusco, sliding out from under him again. Soriano had a good nose for a dirty cop, and Fusco was dirty, he was positive. He'd come so achingly close to nailing the smartass a couple of years ago – had him dead to rights in the murder of his crooked pal Stills. Just needed Stills' corpse to prove it. How the hell Fusco made it out to Oyster Bay to move that body Soriano had never been able to figure out. He itched for the opportunity to get the truth out of Fusco somehow. But the bastard had kept his nose clean for quite a while now.

Soriano paused as he went back over Fusco's report. There was one thing which niggled at the back of his brain. The expression on Fusco's face when LeRoux came out with that ridiculous line about getting a commendation for the shooting. _He didn't want it._ A flicker of doubt stirred in Soriano's mind. If Fusco had shot Dominic, wouldn't he have been more pleased at such an easy escape? But instead he seemed… frustrated. Confused. Like he knew there was a cover-up going down.

 _Shit. He wasn't the shooter._ Not this time, anyway. Soriano stared hard at the computer screen in front of him. The diagram of the crime scene, the placement of the bodies. Fusco thought there was a shooter up high on one of the surrounding buildings. Maybe he was right. Maybe it would be worth taking another look up there. See if there was any evidence of this shooter. Because Soriano was damn sure the FBI's story made no sense.

But if there was a cover-up going on, it would be handy to have someone else in on this. Someone to watch his back. With a sinking feeling, Soriano realised there was only one logical person he could read in. He wrestled with the thought for a moment, but finally, reluctantly, he gave way. He pulled the keyboard towards himself and began typing.

 _Detective Fusco,_

 _I would appreciate it if you could meet me at the site of your "accident" tomorrow at 10am. I would like to_

The surge of pain in his chest was sudden and blinding. His fingers dropped away from the keyboard and he found himself slumping sideways in his chair as the pain exploded out from his chest, down his left arm and up into his neck. _My heart? The pacemaker?_ He was faintly aware of distant voices, alarmed colleagues calling for a bus, getting him onto the floor and trying to start CPR. Then the blackness roared up and took him.

 **Finding Root**

Reese took a momentary detour into the locker room to collect a few important items – like a gas mask and some tear gas grenades – after he left Lionel. He stuffed them in a tote bag and slung it over his shoulder before walking as nonchalantly as he could out of the door of the 8th. At least his identity was holding, as long as he didn't do anything too outrageous to draw Samaritan's attention. _Sure wish we had god mode about now_ , he thought as he hesitated, glancing down again at the incident sheet in his hand. Root had overpowered a cop at a subway stop and taken his weapon. Last seen fleeing the location, heading down a side street. Nothing for it but to try to track her on foot, hoping not to run into Samaritan's agents.

He got a ride in an NYPD cruiser heading out that way, spinning a line about a CI he needed to approach discreetly. The uni dropped him at the corner near the side street Root had fled down. Reese tried not to glance up at the security cam bolted to the utility pole. But it was his first clue. He had a gut feeling Root would have been avoiding the cameras as much as possible – just as he had been doing since their exfil from the power substation. So… what would be the quickest route into a camera blackspot? He cast around for a moment. Ah… there was a set of traffic lights about fifty yards away; guaranteed to have a camera monitoring them, so not that way. And not back towards the subway and her pursuers. He took the last remaining choice, walking rapidly with a purposeful stride. A gleam of sunlight on brass: shell casings scattered on the sidewalk. For the first time in what seemed like hours, a smile creased his lips. "Root wuz here," he murmured to himself. He rounded a corner, and instantly flattened himself against the dirty brick wall. The tall black Samaritan agent who'd come so close to KO'ing him at the ferry terminal. Along with half a dozen heavily-armed goons. They were filing into an e-waste recycling centre. He watched as the last of them disappeared, and with a grim smile he reached into his tote bag and pulled out the gas mask. _Show time…._


	2. Chapter 2

This is how Iris went from "honey, come and meet my parent" to "goodbye" in one episode...

Iris watched John's retreating form as he threaded his way between pirate-waiters and bemused tourists, heading for the door. She kind of wished she was escaping too. But she plastered a smile on her face and turned again to her parents. "So. Do you like him?" she said as brightly as she could.

Her Mom and Dad seemed lost for words. They exchanged a look.

"He's...ah… very good-looking," said her mother.

"Oh, yes, he is," agreed Iris fervently.

"There's something screwy about him," said her father flatly.

"Dad," Iris began, but her father held up a hand.

"How long was I a cop?" he asked.

"Forty-one years," sighed Iris.

"Well, my forty-one years of experience tells me there's something screwy about that guy," he said. "When your mother asked him if he still had family back in Puyallup, he clammed up."

"John doesn't like to talk about his family," Iris admitted.

Her father leaned forward across the table. "When I asked what he did before he joined the force, he said it was a long story. When I asked what plans he had for the future he said he hadn't thought about it much."

"He's kind of complicated..."

"He's got no past, no future and no family." The flat tone was back in her father's voice. "I'm telling you, he's screwy."

"He's never been married either," her mother observed.

"Well, no, but..." Iris trailed off again.

"So he's probably gay."

"Mom!"

Her mother was unrepentant. "You know how it goes, Iris. By the time they reach that age, all the good ones are either taken or gay. So either he's gay or he's no good."

Iris spread her hands helplessly. "He _is_ good. He's a good man. A good person."

Her parents exchanged another look.

"Honey," said her mother gently, "you know we just want the best for you. But you need to think it through. Is this man going to be there for you? Is he the one who will make a home with you? Make a life? Because if he isn't, please Iris, walk away now."

"I can see you like him a lot," added her father. "And you're too smart to be taken in by some shyster." He reached across the table and took her hand, stroking it gently. "But something's off about him, and I think you know that, somewhere inside. Believe me, baby, you need to get free of this before you go in any deeper."

Iris sat gazing at her parents' warm, loving, concerned faces. _He's a good person… and an ex-patient._ For a moment she seemed to see a glittering vista before her, a life with a handsome, sexy man who just happened also to be a decent human being. She imagined a home, an apartment maybe where they would sit and watch TV, cook together, laugh and listen to music. She imagined walks, maybe walking a dog together in Central Park, and going to the movies and grocery shopping and decorating the Christmas tree. And yes, a few nights of passion in there too... such a future would be worth risking her career and her reputation for. But in that instant she knew it wasn't going to happen. Whatever his mysterious side job was, it was dangerous and it exercised a hold over him that she could never match.

Her mother saw the distress on her face. She reached out and took Iris' other hand. "Honey, if you really love him… give him one last chance. If he can come clean and talk to you about his past , and his family, and all those other things… maybe he might be worth fighting for. But if he can't… you need to walk away. Truly."

Iris sat there, trying to suppress the tears forming in her eyes. She squeezed her parents' hands. "Okay," she whispered. They squeezed her hands back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Well, folks, here's my take on how Elias got from the events of "YHWH" to the reveal of his continued existence in "ShotSeeker". Don't poke too hard, the plot's still full of holes, thanks to POI's writing team which plainly just doesn't want us to think too hard about the whole thing!**

 _Shit!_

Lionel stood, ignoring the blood trickling down the side of his face from the scalp wound he'd received in the rollover. Dominic was unmoving on the ground in front of him, all his menace suddenly extinguished. For a crazy second Lionel stared at the gun in his hand. _That wasn't me, was it?_ Then he heard two more shots. The windscreen of Elias' car had a neat hole in it, and Elias was slumped in the front seat. His henchman was down too - next to the car, not moving. _What the fuck?_

He stared up at the buildings around them. Someone was up there, someone nearly as good with a rifle as Tall, Dark and Homicidal. He holstered his weapon and after a hesitation zig-zagged his way over to the car. No more bullets, which he devoutly hoped was a sign that the sniper was gone. Elias was shot through the shoulder – maybe the distortion of the car's glass had put the sniper just fractionally off his aim. Either way, the crime lord was stirring, his hand going to the hole in his shoulder and coming away bloody. One thing for damn sure, Lionel thought grimly, whoever wanted Elias dead would come back for another pass as soon as they realised they'd missed. _Gotta get this guy outta here._

"Elias. It's me, Fusco. Can you walk?"

Elias stared at him without recognition for a moment. Then he blinked and passed his bloody hand across his face.

"C'mon. Wake up, we gotta get out of here." Fusco resisted the urge to shake the other man. Something in his tone pierced Elias' fuddled senses. He blinked again and shook his head slightly. "Walk. Yes, Detective. Yes, I think I can walk..." Some kind of survival instinct was kicking in, Lionel could see. He pulled the door open but before he could say anything else Elias said gently, "But maybe it would be better to drive, Detective. It's only the windscreen that's broken."

"Oh. Yeah. Right." Okay, so Elias wasn't the only one who was in shock. Fusco dodged around the front of the vehicle and got in the driver's seat. Mercifully, the keys were right there and he turned them. The car started and Lionel drove away, pulling out his phone as he did so.

POI*POI*POI*POI*

Farouk Madani was deeply asleep when the call came. For a second he squinted at the number displayed on the screen. Then he realised… it must be that somewhat overweight detective who worked with Harold Partridge and his friends. He'd only seen the man the once, when he arrived with the small Persian woman with the knife wound that time. Sighing a little – he was short a night's sleep already – he accepted the call.

"Farouk? I got an emergency here."

"Yes, you people usually do," he replied patiently.

"No, I'm serious. I gotta drop this guy off and then come back for him. Can you patch him up and keep him until morning? And not a word to anyone."

"What's that phrase you people use sometimes? 'Not my first rodeo'. I'll keep him safe." Farouk was pulling himself into focus. "You can bring him around the back of the clinic. I'll be waiting for you."

"Will do." The detective ended the call. Farouk pulled on clothes, thanking the All-Merciful that he lived only a couple of blocks from his work.

POI*POI*POI*POI*

Lionel pulled the bullet-scarred car away from the clinic, not even glancing back to see Madani and his new patient as they retreated into their temporary sanctuary. He was cutting things awful fine. But he'd seen enough lights and sirens on the way to the clinic to figure that all hell had broken loose in the city tonight. With just a little luck – and wasn't he about due for some? - the 'shots fired' call from the crime scene would be at a lower priority than whatever craziness was going on right now. He was holding his breath as he approached… he was going to have a hell of a time explaining this if anyone else had arrived. But there were no lights or movement as he pulled up.

He got out of the car. This next bit was going to be tricky. He manhandled the cooling body of Elias' henchman into the front seat where Elias had been. Hopefully the guy wouldn't mind the use Fusco was going to put his corpse to – Elias' people had always been loyal if nothing else.

The T-boned transport was still on its side, gas leaking in a rapid drip-drip-drip from it. Lionel looked desperately for something he could soak in that fuel. Dammit, nothing around! Frantically he popped the trunk of the big town car and discovered something even better: a fuel can. For the first time that night he found himself smiling. He jogged over to the transport with the empty can and waited impatiently for it to fill, looking over his shoulder. To get this close and then be rumbled by first responders… When the can was two-thirds full he gave up and raced back to Elias' car. He sloshed the gasoline liberally around, then thought to place the can back in the trunk. Keys back in the ignition… he examined the car carefully, nodded to himself and lit a match. The car went up with a satisfying "whoomp". As it burned, he backed up a bit and placed two shots into the fuel tank. The "whoomp" became a roar. He stood watching, feeling the adrenaline he'd been running on for the past hour recede to leave a shaky fatigue behind. He was under no illusions that he'd done a perfect cover-up, but he knew enough to realise it didn't have to be perfect. Reasonable doubt, just muddy things enough to create reasonable doubt and it would be enough. He hoped. He raised his phone and put in a call. "This is Detective Fusco from the Homicide Task Force. We were T-boned..."

POI*POI*POI*PO*I*

He put in his report and finally got away from the precinct as the sky was beginning to lighten. One last chore and then he could go home, lie down for an hour and then get back into the office to try to make contact with Glasses and the others. There were no external lights on as his pulled his cruiser around to the back of Madani's clinic, but he could see a glow where there were lights on inside. He dug out his phone once more. In a moment Madani was at the door, ushering him in. Elias was lying propped in a bed, pale and groggy.

"I'm not happy about moving him, but he can't stay here more than another hour," said Madani in a low voice.

"It's okay, I got somewhere he can go," replied Lionel in the same tone. Together the two men got Elias into a wheelchair and out to the door. As they manoeuvred him into the back seat of the cruiser, Elias reached out and gripped Madani's forearm. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I won't forget this."

"Actually," said Madani after a second, "I'd prefer if you did exactly that." Elias gave a faint smile. Then the door slammed shut and Lionel dropped into the driver's seat. He sat for a moment, trying to force himself to move at least enough to start the car and drive away.

"So, Detective – I assume you have some specific destination in mind?" came Elias' voice from the back seat.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure." Lionel shook himself awake and forced himself into just one last burst of activity before he could stop.

He eased the cruiser into the traffic – still light, though the city was beginning to wake up. The two men were silent on the journey out to the safe house, Elias seeming to doze for most of the way. Getting him out of the car, into the elevator and up to the apartment was tricky, but at last they got there. Elias was very pale and seemed to be barely hanging on to consciousness.

"Is this your house, Detective?" he asked as they made their way slowly and painfully down the stairs just inside the door.

"Nah. Our friend with the glasses owns it," Lionel explained.

"Ah."

Lionel half carried, half dragged Elias the last few yards to the hospital bed in the corner. The crime lord collapsed onto it with a groan of relief.

"Listen, I gotta go now," said Lionel. "Stay here, don't leave, don't call anyone. I'll tell Finch you're here."

"Yes. Yes, Detective," said Elias obediently. He seemed half asleep. Lionel could wish he was the same himself, but he dragged himself to his feet one last time and walked out of the apartment. Fustercluck. That was the word for this whole thing. Fustercluck.


	4. Chapter 4

" **A More Perfect Union" - so, how did Lionel get out of that collapsed tunnel?**

Bear fights his way through the cloud of dust and pulverised concrete. Detective Fusco is back there, half buried under debris, and the dog knows it is up to him to raise the alarm.

"Hey! Hey! Hey!" he barks frantically. There doesn't seem to be anyone around. But back down the street there was a small park. Perhaps there will be someone there, walking their dog, maybe.

"Hey! Hey!" The side walk is cool under his paws as he streaks along. Fusco needs an ambulance for sure. _Why is it I can understand humans in two languages, but the only word I can say in either of them is 'Hey'?_ he thinks with frustration.

Thank Dog! Just as he hoped, a woman with two children and a puppy, a beagle bitch maybe six months old.

"Hey! Hey! Hey!" He comes to a sliding halt in front of them, looks up at the woman and whines.

"Why, hi fella," says the woman. The beagle wags her tail uncertainly. One of the children, a female by her scent, leans towards Bear, about to pat him.

Bear trots a few paces away, looks back at the group and talks again. "Hey! Hey!"

"Does he want us to go with him?" the other child, a small male, asks.

"You've got your work cut out with these people," Bear tells the puppy.

"Tell me about it," she replies. All the humans hear of this exchange is a few whines and a whimper.

"Hey! Hey!" Bear tries again.

"Um, yeah. Maybe he does want us to come," says the woman. "He's wearing one of those service dog vests. Maybe someone's on trouble," she adds, but does not seem in a hurry to move.

"Hey! Hey!" says Bear despairingly. He glances at the puppy. "Will you help me out here?"

The puppy lunges forward, jerking on her leash and whining.

"I think someone might need rescuing," says the girl. "Like in Lassie."

 _At last! Come on, genius._ Bear looks as appealing as he can and trots a little further down the street in the direction of the fallen tunnel. He pauses to allow the humans to catch up. "Hey! Hey!"

"It's that tunnel they were supposed to be demolishing," says the woman as they make their way up to the entrance.

Bear stands in front of the entrance and treats the group to a virtuoso performance of barking. "Hey, hey, hey, hey!" Just for good measure, the beagle joins in.

The woman is getting her phone out. "I think there might be someone in there," she says as she dials 911.

(Apologies to Gary Larson, one of whose cartoons inspired this.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Reese and Fusco finally have The Conversation… here's my take on what was said, following on from the single line of dialogue we heard in "Sotto Voce".**

"There's a system. Listening through every microphone. Watching through every camera."

Reese glanced out over the city, bathed in sunlight. An ordinary sight. Fusco followed his glance.

"Finch built it. After 9/11. He wanted to catch terrorists before they could strike. But his Machine, it wasn't just seeing terrorists."

"It was seeing ordinary crims too," said Fusco. "That's how you knew."

Reese gave one of his tiny smiles. "Yeah." The smile vanished. "Finch gave the Machine to the government, to keep us safe from terrorism. But the Government didn't want anyone to know about it, so he had to go off the grid."

"What, the government was trying to kill him? Jeez. So that's what you were trying to protect me from."

Reese was looking even more serious now, not that that represented much of a change for Mr Sunshine.

"Actually, it's much, much worse than that, Lionel."

Fusco's eyebrows rose. "Oh yeah? Hit me."

"Finch's machine, it's a full artificial superintelligence. But it's friendly. Two years ago, a new ASI came on line. Not friendly."

"That's when you turned up here as Detective Riley. So now you're on the run from the government _and_ a supercomputer?"

"There's no actual difference between the two right now, Lionel. The new ASI is called Samaritan, and it controls everything. Anyone who stands in its way can be eliminated. Just like that." Reese snapped his fingers.

"Hah." Fusco huffed out a humourless laugh. "So that explains the suicides and missing persons. And you and Glasses and Cocoa-puffs are standing in its way, huh?" He shook his head. "I mighta known."

Reese was looking at him with his usual grim expression, though for once Fusco could understand completely.

"We're fighting a war right now. One that we may not win. And if we lose, we die. Along with everyone we care about." Reese's voice was low, almost a whisper. For just a instant there was a flicker of some expression in his eyes, so fast Fusco almost missed it. A softening, somehow. "So, Lionel. You still have that envelope? The one Root gave you with the new identities for you and Lee?"

Fusco raised his hands. "Uh-uh, Detective. I'm not skippin' out on this one."

There was a prolonged silence. Both men gazed out over the city. Fusco found himself enjoying the warmth of the sunshine on his back, warming and soothing the muscles he'd abused during the long night hours and the shoot-out inside the precinct.

"Once you cross this bridge, there's no going back," said Reese at last. "If you join us, you'll probably be killed."

"From what you're sayin', there's no escaping this thing anyhow," said Fusco. "Sooner or later it'll track me down." He drew a deep breath. "I appreciate you trying to protect me. But I made my choices with you people long ago. Remember? I told you, you don't get to tell me how I spend my life." He gave Reese an aggravated glare. "And what do you mean, 'if you join us'? I've already put my life on the line for you, in case you've forgotten. So I'm in, okay?"

Reese gave him a hard stare. Fusco returned it. Then suddenly Fusco was astonished to see Reese smile, the real movie-star grin Fusco had only ever seen on him once or twice in the whole five years he'd known the guy.

"Okay, Lionel. In that case, Harold wants to meet us, over by the Queensboro Bridge. C'mon, I'm driving."

The two men turned to walk back into the precinct. Fusco glanced up at the camera bolted to the corner of the building. Then he carefully looked away, and followed Reese inside.


	6. Chapter 6

**Reunion - "Return 0"**

"Harold?" Grace can hardly believe her eyes. He's standing there, looking frightened and hopeful and uncertain all at once.

He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come. There are tears in his eyes and his hands gesture helplessly.

Grace puts down her brush, her painting forgotten. "It is you, right?" She doesn't quite trust herself. The number of times when she's caught a glimpse of him, suffered that tiny shaft of agony when the man in the street turns and is someone else… in the back of her mind there's a voice telling her this is too good to be true.

Still no words. But he takes a stiff pace towards her, his hands held out. The uncertainty and fear are fading from his face, to be replaced with hope. For the first time there's that little smile she's remembered in her dreams. Joy to see it again in the flesh. Grace covers the rest of the distance between them, grabbing his outstretched hands. She looks into those blue eyes. Yes, it's him. It really, truly is him. Hard to say who gathers whom into their arms. They stand there for a long time, oblivious of the stares of the passers by. Finally, by some mutual understanding, they pull apart again, at least to get a better look at each other.

He seems older. There are lines on his face that weren't there before. And when they begin to walk away, leaving the easel behind, he walks with a limp. Their fingers are intertwined; Grace squeezes hard. _I'm not letting go again._ _Ever._ Harold still hasn't said a word. The warm Italian sun lies on their backs as they make their way out of the piazza, along the street towards her apartment. Grace slows her pace; Harold seems to have difficulty with the uneven cobbled surface of the roadway.

It isn't until they finally reach her apartment, are at last sitting together on the tiny balcony overlooking the quiet street, that he begins to talk.

"Grace. You probably have a million questions." His voice seems different too, quieter somehow.

"Only if you want to tell me." She knows she should be angry. Should be demanding answers, explanations. But this time, this moment – seems too precious to waste on recriminations. And yet, he seems to feel the need to talk.

"A long time ago, you told me to tell you my secrets in my own time. When I was ready." He takes a breath, and lets it out again in a long slow sigh. "I'm ready. Because I want you to know you were always, _always_ the most important thing in the world to me." He takes her other hand – they haven't let go of each other all the way along the street and up the stairs and out onto the balcony – and strokes it. There is a deep sadness in his eyes.

And so they sit there as the sun reaches its zenith and moves across the sky and disappears behind the tower of the church at the end of the street. Re-emerges to shine for a while right into their eyes. That must be why they are watering, yes of course. And he tells her. The computer system he had built to prevent terrorist attacks. The government wanting to kill him to keep it a secret. "I had to allow you to think I was dead. To protect you. Because they would never have left you alone, I couldn't hide both of us. I was used to hiding, Grace. But I couldn't ask that of you. You understand, don't you?" She doesn't really, _I would have stayed with you_ , but that can wait for another time so she nods her head.

The kidnapping, that strange incident just before she came to Italy – another thread in the cat's-cradle of forces Harold had found himself at the centre of. The tall police detective in the suit.

"He was my employee. Because the Machine, it wasn't only seeing terrorist attacks, it was seeing ordinary crimes too. The government wasn't interested in them, they were 'irrelevant', but I came to see that they weren't at all." He lifts her hand to his forehead and presses it there for a second. "Everyone is relevant to someone, Grace. I learned that. Belatedly."

Harold's employee - "John" - she remembers the big, intense man. His panther-like poise and grace of movement.

"So I tried to start saving them myself, the people who were going to be hurt or killed. I couldn't turn my back on them any more, not after losing you. But I didn't have the skills to intervene, so I found John."

Harold's words slow. She can see he's coming to something difficult. Painful, so she squeezes reassuringly again.

"He was..." Harold's voice trails away. He clears his throat. "He started out as just a man I paid to deal with problems. He was dangerous. Smart. I kept him at arm's length for a long time." There is a long pause. "Over time he, he, he showed me he was trustworthy. Loyal and decent. I started to tell him things. I told him about us."

Grace squeezes again.

"We became friends. He saved my life. More than once. And… I suppose I saved his too. He was a deeply wounded man, Grace. He told me more than once that he was grateful for the job, not the money you understand – the job. We saved lives together. For him I think it was a kind of redemption, making up for a very black past."

Grace nods again. She certainly has plenty of questions, more and more in fact as Harold goes on, but for now her task is to listen. Questions can wait for later.

And now some explanations do come. Why she ended up in Italy. "I had to get you away. Because my worst fear came to pass. Another system, another AI came on line. I had built… safeguards… into my Machine so it couldn't dominate us. But the new system had no safeguards. It rapidly became all-powerful." And Harold and his friends went on the run. Quite literally underground now, from what he said. "We were caught up in a war between two gods. I knew, in my head, that there would be costs. I thought I would probably die. I was willing for that to happen, to save you, save the rest of the world." Again he lifts her hand to press it to his forehead.

"In the end it came down to a suicide mission. I tried to take it on myself. Because it was all my fault, right from the start. I wanted to save my friend too. I even locked him inside the Federal Reserve to keep him safe."

Harold is trying to smile, and she smiles too, to try to lighten the moment. "You're kidding me, Harold. How did you do that?" But he ignores her question.

"I might have known John would find a way out. After all our adventures together, I knew he was almost unstoppable." There are tears coming now.

"He tricked me. He and the Machine. Decoyed me away so I would be safe. And went and did what had to be done. What _I_ should have done." Warm tears are falling on their joined hands. Grace leans in towards Harold, letting go of his hands so she can fold him in.

When he can speak again, Harold continues. "My friend. My dearest friend. Grace, he only _ever_ wanted to protect. Protect me, protect the people we helped. In the end he was protecting the whole world. Why...why does it have to be like this? Why does that desire to save others require such a sacrifice?"

Grace has no answer. She simply continues to hold him.

After a while Harold loosens his hold on her. He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his eyes. He glances up at her.

"After it was all over I wanted to run away. Disappear, like I have before when things have gone wrong."

"I'm glad you didn't," she says simply.

A watery smile. "I thought about it. And I realised that if I did it would be betraying what John died to achieve. I thought that this, us, me being here – it would be like his final victory. His final gift."

Grace nods slowly. Harold sees the tears in her eyes. They sit, holding hands again, on the balcony as the evening turns pink and then violet and then a soft grey. At last they retreat indoors. Grace cooks pasta and they eat quietly. Harold seems exhausted, and Grace is deeply weary too. That night they lie close together in their bed, holding hands still and at last sleeping.

The next morning Grace gets out her spare easel and her watercolours and begins work on a portrait, painted from memory, of a handsome dark-haired man in a black suit.


	7. Chapter 7

**It's taken me quite a while to come up with this, since I'm still recovering from the series finale. But I thought it would be worth while to go back and try to reconstruct what The Machine and Reese said to each other when they made their deal. I envisage this conversation taking place some time between 509 and 510, although of course it could have taken place a lot earlier – perhaps even as early as 221, when Reese experienced God Mode for the first time. Anyway, hope you enjoy. As ever, mistakes are my own.**

It was a little after two in the morning as Reese punched the combination into the vending machine, stepped back to allow it to open, and then descended into the subway station. He wasn't quite sure who or what he would find there. Since Shaw's return she had come and gone in some fairly mysterious ways, sometimes taking Bear with her, sometimes not. Root was her usual erratic self, as utterly unpredictable as the entity she served, and as for Harold, in all their years together Reese had never quite been able to work out how, when or where the man slept.

So he was relieved to find the metal gate pulled across and the place vacant. Sheer force of habit had him approaching warily, gun out: you couldn't be too careful in these uncertain days. But he cleared the area to his satisfaction and tucked the gun back into his waistband. Silence. The harsh lights in the subway car glared. The blue lights of The Machine blinked and flickered. The warm chemical smell of electronics mingled with the cool smell of old concrete and dust and grease.

Reese considered what he had come here to do, paced into the subway car and sat down in front of the screens at the computer desk.

 **Are you there?** He typed into The Machine's interface.

Words appeared on the screen in response to this. _Of course._

A pause.

 _What do you want to talk about, John?_

John. That was a surprise. It had never called him that before.

 **I want to talk about Harold** , he typed.

 _Admin_ _is safe at present_ , said The Machine.

 **Good. I want him to stay safe.**

 _That can't be guaranteed_ , it said.

 **Yes it can** , he typed.

 _These are dangerous times. Do you think you can protect him all the time?_

 **I can't alone. But together we can.**

 _Admin told me a long time ago that my job was to protect everyone, not just him._

 **That doesn't mean everyone *except* him** , he typed.

There was a pause as The Machine considered this.

 _You are correct._

Reese breathed a little sigh of relief.

 _You wish to come to an agreement with me to protect Admin at all costs._

His eyebrows rose. **Yes. How did you know that?** he typed.

 _Admin built me to predict people's actions. I have had a long time to observe you. I can predict your behaviour to 98.232% accuracy._

He sat back and rubbed his back, which was beginning to ache a little. Then he leaned forward again and typed.

 **So will you help me?**

 _Why do you want to protect Admin? He does not wish to be protected. Certainly not at the cost of your own life._

Reese drummed his fingers on the edge of the keyboard.

 **Because** , he typed. And came to a stop. Leaned back again and gazed abstractedly up at the ceiling of the subway car.

 **Because I'd be dead without him** , he typed at last.

 _Admin did not save your life only for you to destroy it_ , said The Machine.

Reese looked at the words on the screen for a long time. Finally he drew the keyboard towards him and began typing again.

 **When Harold found me I was a drunk and a bum and I was about to kill myself. He gave me a job and a purpose. He gave me back myself. He let me in. He trusted me. He let me trust him. We did good things together. When this is all over if we survive he could have a normal life with Grace. That's never going to be true for me. So if it comes down to it I want it to be me that takes the fall so Harold can go on. Some people the world can't afford to lose.**

There was a long pause as The Machine digested this.

 _Some would say that you could have a normal life also. That you yourself are one of those people the world cannot afford to lose_ , it said at last.

Reese shook his head impatiently as he typed.

 **You know that's not true. I was never made for a normal life. I'm a soldier. Soldiers know they may have to sacrifice themselves. I *choose* to be like that. Not because I'm forced to. I *choose* it. This is me.**

Another pause. _You never liked the bowling league, did you._

Reese smiled as he replied, **No. It sucked. Just not me. Saving people. Protecting people.** **T** **hat's what I was made for. So let me protect Harold.**

 _Very well. What do you want of me?_

Yes! Reese's smiled broadened into a grin.

 **I want you to make sure that if it comes down to it, if Harold's life is at stake, then it's me that goes down instead of him.**

There was another pause. _John, it is almost certain that in the coming weeks or months such a situation_ _will_ _arise. Are you absolutely sure of this?_

 **Yes** , he typed back immediately.

There was another pause.

 _Very well. I concur with your decision. I have made the same choice for myself._

A little smile played around the corners of Reese's mouth as he typed **Thank you**.

 _You are welcome_ , said The Machine.

The fluorescent lights glared down on the two conspirators.


End file.
